


Night Owl

by FoxGlade



Series: early bird 'verse [2]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathtubs, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Platonic Cuddling, these things are all related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-21 18:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14920766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxGlade/pseuds/FoxGlade
Summary: Jack laughs and hooks his arm properly around Ben, pulling him under his arm and tucking him against his side, and Sammy does his best not to feel anything even approaching jealousy. They're both his best friends, and neither of them deserve that.Besides, he'd never fit against Jack as well as Ben does.(Sammy, Jack and Ben go to a party. Ben and Sammy have a heart to heart.)





	Night Owl

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be another 700 words of fluff but yall? yall. i love this dumbass world ive created. i love writing these guys as younger and less traumatised. and i love the concept of ben and sammy being best friends no matter the circumstances they meet under!!
> 
> quick heads up, sammy has a bit of an anxiety attack over the possibility of being outed and Drinks To Cope in the second section of this fic. maybe give this one a miss if youre iffy on those things. be safe folks.
> 
> there will definitely be more of this 'verse, so watch this space, because the next one is gonna be Real Fun.

The party is in full swing by the time the three of them roll up, Ben leading the way, Jack keeping a hand on his shoulder to keep him from bouncing off into the distance, and Sammy slouching along in the back. Music spills out onto the street, loud enough to be heard blocks away. College students of (hopefully) legal drinking age also spill out of the house, many of them clearly deep in their cups.

“I feel old already,” Jack complains, shooting Sammy a sympathetic smile. Sammy rolls his eyes.

“As if you weren't at a party getting high two weeks ago,” he snarks. Ben looks delighted by this bit of information and pats Jack's hand rapidly.

“Where?” he demands. Jack laughs and hooks his arm properly around Ben, pulling him under his arm and tucking him against his side, and Sammy does his best not to feel anything even approaching jealousy. They're both his best friends, and neither of them deserve that.

Besides, he'd never fit against Jack as well as Ben does.

“It was a work thing,” Jack says, “I'm not gonna invite some college kid to a bigshot producer's place.” The words are harsh, but he says them with clear fondness, ruffling Ben's hair with his other hand. Ben bats it away. Sammy can't see his expression, walking behind them, but he can guess that Ben's smiling in that embarrassed-pleased way he does whenever someone's giving him affection.

“Bigshot producer is stretching it a little,” Sammy says, before they can start making out on the sidewalk or something equally awkward. Jack looks over his shoulder with a smile, and Sammy continues, “He was a local guy, even if it was a popular station.”

“Every little thing counts!” Ben insists as he squirms his way out of Jack’s hold. “I mean, you guys are doing pretty good now, but if you really got some connections with the bigger places in town…”

“I got some connections,” Sammy says. “Jack here got high on the balcony with the AM DJs.”

“ _And_ a junior manager,” Jack interrupts. “She loved me, dude. Said I was ‘better than half the fucking macho manly men in the station’, to be exact.”

“How much did she love you?” Sammy asks skeptically. Jack makes a kissy face and then laughs.

“Enough to tell me about her girlfriend,” he replies. Ben makes an interested sound. “She said she'd look up our show, dude.”

Sammy is thrown a little off balance, sure - he'll be the first to admit he thinks of radio and openly gay people as somewhat mutually exclusive - but he reels it back in. “Well, I think I got to the producer, too,” he says. “He liked my attitude. Called me a ‘real man’, said there weren't enough of ‘men like me’ these days.”

Jack and Ben both wince. “If it gets you in the door..?” Ben says tentatively, but Jack lets out an annoyed sigh.

“It's sure as hell not gonna get you out,” he mutters. Ben blinks at him, eyebrows drawing together. Sammy crosses his arms, but he can't look at Jack’s face.

“Jack-” he starts, but Jack takes a step back.

“Let's go inside,” he says, “it's cold out here.”

Jack walks off, picking his way around drunken college students and discarded beer cans. Ben watches him go, gnawing at one of his knuckles, clearly torn between following him and comforting Sammy.

He really doesn't deserve the ugly jealousy growing in Sammy, he thinks, and feels worse for it. “It's fine,” he tells Ben. Ben gives him a wide-eyed look that speaks to exactly how much he doesn't believe that. “Come on. We should find him before he finds trouble.”

“Yeah,” Ben says hesitantly, but they don't take more than a few steps before he's gently touching Sammy’s arm and saying “You guys have… kind of been arguing about that lately. A lot.”

He doesn't have to clarify. Ben practically lives at their place, these days, and has been accidental party to at least three loud discussions over Sammy and his unwillingness to maybe take a step out of the closet. In the past, these discussions had ended before they'd begun, due to Jack also being not exactly open with their colleagues, but he'd been taking more risks, since he and Ben had started… hanging out. Not trying to appear as the epitome of heterosexuality like Sammy still does. Telling anecdotes around the water cooler with ambiguous wording and pronouns.

It could really hurt us, Sammy would say.

It's hurting me to not be honest about this, Jack would reply, eyes blazing and voice deliberately even.

And Sammy could try to explain how at least they were safe, this way, but Jack would scoff and turn away, and that would be that unless they wanted to turn it into a screaming match.

“It's fine,” he repeats. He looks Ben over - picking at the polish on his nails, almost vibrating with nervous energy, but face full of concern, and he can't help but smile. “Seriously. C'mon, he's probably had a drink in the minute since we saw him, and he's gonna want to dance.”

“I'll dance with him after he apologises,” Ben says, but he grins back tentatively, and Sammy ruffles his hair just to see him make that embarrassed-pleased face again.

 

An hour later, and Sammy’s firmly stuck on the wall nursing the same red cup of punch he'd picked up when he'd come inside. He'd taken one sip and decided someone may as well stay sober - Ben had skipped out into the crowd after his own drink was finished, which had only taken a few minutes. He'd come back a couple of times to check on him, chide him into socialising more, dragged Jack over and made him apologise, but his last check was a while ago now. Sammy had seen the two of them dancing together a few minutes ago, laughing and pulling each other closer in the crowd, and he'd decided that if he couldn't be happy for them, he might as well go.

So here he is, loitering near the kitchen, trying to give his best Dad Friend looks of disapproval to the kids getting more drinks despite already being off their faces, and thinking about anything except how much he wants to ask Jack to dance.

“Hey,” someone says, and a second later some guy slides up next to him. He's slightly taller than Sammy, with shaggy blonde hair and a crooked smile, and he leans with an elegance that says he's trying too hard. Sammy would be more amused if he weren't suddenly unaccountably nervous. “You graduating soon?”

“I'm twenty six,” Sammy says. The guy rolls his neck and widens his smile into more of a smirk.

“Just a number,” he says. Sammy huffs a tiny laugh. The guy is probably Ben’s age, but even with his confident bearing and admittedly handsome jawline, there's something decidedly immature about him.

He must see some of this skepticism in Sammy, because he changes his approach, pushing off the wall and standing about four inches inside Sammy’s personal space. “Wanna dance?” he asks.

It's definitely not funny anymore. Not now that Sammy doesn't have an exit strategy, pushed against the wall as he is. “No thanks,” he says shortly, trying to keep a lid on the Shotgun act that always appears when he needs a defense mechanism.

The guy looks him up and down. “What, not interested?” he asks, and then, “A guy like you?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Sammy spits, and he shoves the guy away before he can think better of it.

“Calm down, buddy,” the guy says, but he steps back in close, no attempt to de-escalate. “You got a problem?”

“I think you're gonna have a problem if you don't back up,” Sammy says, and between one second and the next, Ben is there, one hand on Sammy’s chest and the other pushing the guy away.

“Dude, what's the deal?” he asks, voice hard and unyielding in a way he never uses. The guy scowls, and even in the midst of Sammy’s building panic, he notes again the difference in maturity between them. “Get out of his face, man.”

“Coulda just said you had a boyfriend,” the guy mutters. He gives Ben a sour look and says, “Dude's a major closet case.”

“Fuck off,” Ben bites out. The guy rolls his eyes and walks off. “Asshole! I saw him getting into your space, I saw him - dude, are you okay?”

Ben still has his hand on Sammy's chest. It feels like it’s crushing his lungs. “How did he know?” he says, and can barely hear it above the music. “How did he fucking know?”

“He didn't,” Ben assures him. His eyes are wide and dark, and he reaches up to put a hand on Sammy’s cheek. “He was talking out of his drunken ass, he didn't -”

Without thinking, he slaps Ben’s hand away and pushes him back.

There's only a foot or two between them once Ben stumbles back, but it may as well be the Grand Canyon. Ben stares at him in shock, and Sammy's throat closes up so he can barely choke out, “I'm sorry,” before he bolts for the stairs.

“Sammy!” he hears Ben call out after him, and he knows Ben is tiny enough to slip through any crowd, but he's pushing people aside too fast for his friend to catch up. He pounds up the stairs, pausing on the landing only long enough to grab a mostly-full bottle of some clear liquid left sitting in a corner. He clutches it in his fist as he crashes his way onto the second floor, barely noticing the tightness in his chest now with the overwhelming need to _get out get out get out._

Most of the doors up here are closed - he doesn't want to think about why. He stumbles along the carpet runner until he sees a bathroom, and then ducks inside and slams the door shut behind him. A choked sound escapes his swollen throat when he realises there's no lock, and nothing to jam under the handle - just a sink on the wall, a toilet next to it, and an old claw-footed bathtub against the far wall. Instead, he slides to the ground with his back to the door, praying that Ben doesn't find him, and starts drinking.

 

Ben does, of course, find him. There's only so many rooms upstairs to search.

“Sammy!” his voice calls from the other side of the door, followed by a few rapid knocks. Sammy curls in on himself miserably. “I know you're in there, dude!”

Sammy laughs, maybe too loudly, definitely too bitterly, and takes another drink. It's vodka, as it turns out, real cheap shit, definitely not what he'd choose in this situation, but it's doing the job - he's managed to put away enough in the few minutes since he barricaded himself in here.

“I'm serious, let me in!” There's a few moments of silence and then, barely audible, a sniff. “I don't feel good,” Ben says, quieter than before. “I think I drank too much…”

There's something in his voice that cuts through the vodka-soaked panic clogging Sammy’s system. He drags himself upright using the door handle and cracks it open, peering out to check on his friend.

Who’s standing there with an unimpressed look, seemingly in good health. “Are you okay?” Sammy asks, only for Ben to push past him and shut the door again. At least he stays a few steps away.

“I'm fine,” Ben says, “I just needed you to open the door.”

The short burst of anxiety-adrenaline leaves Sammy’s body, immediately replaced by anger. He crosses his arms and scowls. “I was worried,” he says tightly. Ben throws his hands up.

“I'm worried about you, asshole!” he says, voice echoing on the tiles. “You run out of the room instead of just talking to me, you look yourself in a bathroom, you're _drinking?_ Is that stuff just straight ethanol?”

“The fuck does it matter?” Sammy shoots back. He slumps against the door and puts his face in his hand.

“Please,” Ben says. His voice is softer, now, and Sammy can imagine what kind of gentle look must be on his face. His stomach churns uncomfortably. “Just talk to me, dude. Let me help.”

Finally, Sammy looks up. Ben is still a foot or two away, giving Sammy some space, but he's wringing his hands like he's restraining himself from leaping over and hugging him. He probably is. Sammy’s never known Ben to hold back on affection, verbal or physical - he just has too much love for his tiny body to contain.

The sudden wave of fondness collides with the panic and the ugly jealousy still lurking in his stomach, and he hunches over. “Don't feel good,” he mumbles, trying to crack a smile. “Think I drank too much.”

“Course you did,” Ben sighs, but he closes the gap and puts a hand on Sammy’s back, guiding him over to the toilet. “You never drink, your system is probably going haywire now.”

“I never drink?” Sammy says in an approximation of his usual snark. “Because you're the expert?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Ben replies neutrally. “I mean, it's been…” He pauses. “Three months. Huh. Feels longer.”

“Feels like forever,” Sammy agrees. It's weird to think that he'd lived his whole life without Ben in it, only to wholeheartedly fold him into it within minutes of meeting him. He's never clicked with someone so instantaneously before, not even Jack.

“So I'm probably the expert on Sammy Stevens, after Jack,” Ben continues, mirroring his thoughts. Sammy groans and leans over the bowl. Thinking about Jack just reminds him of the mess he's gotten them all into, being jealous over stupid shit and ruining the mood with his bullshit _feelings-_

Ben, amazing friend that he is, doesn't say a word as Sammy throws up the vodka, along with the food he'd eaten today. He just makes vague comforting noises and rubs his back in a soothing manner. At least he doesn't have long hair, Sammy thinks miserably. That would get messy.

“Sorry,” he mumbles to Ben when his stomach is empty. Ben reaches up to flush the toilet and then puts his hand on Sammy’s back again, patting a few times.

“S’okay,” Ben says quietly. “You didn't get any on me. Still super gross, by the way, but-”

“Sorry I'm like this,” Sammy clarifies. The hand stops patting.

“A total wimp around alcohol?” Ben asks tentatively. Sammy snorts weakly.

“A coward,” he says, and spits into the bowl. “A fake. A- a _nothing._ ”

“Dude,” Ben says. He sounds upset, and when he pulls Sammy back from the toilet, his lips are all twisted up in a frown. “Don't talk about yourself like that, you know it's not true.”

“I do know it's true, actually,” Sammy says stubbornly. Ben rolls his eyes.

“Well, I don't,” he says. “Come on, stand up. No one feels good about themselves kneeling in front of a toilet.”

“Can feel bad about myself anywhere,” Sammy mutters, but he lets Ben haul him upright with surprising strength and nudge him over to the bathtub. Ben looks at him expectantly. Sammy stares back.

“What?” he asks finally. “You gonna give me a sponge bath, nurse?”

He may have thrown up all the alcohol, but it’s clearly still in his system. But Ben laughs, for a second, his mask of concern finally cracking. “We're gonna sit in the tub,” he says, “it's what drunk people do at house parties, trust me.”

“So you did drink too much,” Sammy accuses. Ben waves a hand.

“Not _too_ much,” he stresses. “Come on!” And he settles himself at one end of the tub. The tub is big enough (or he's small enough) that he can sit cross-legged with his knees only hitched up a little. Sammy, on the other hand, tries to fold himself into the other end for only a few seconds before he gives up and stretches his legs out.

“This is dumb,” he says, and he laughs as he says it. He's absolutely too tall for this - even with his feet resting either side of Ben’s hips, his knees are still bent up against the sides of the tub. But it's comfortable, at least, and he's more amused by it than anything. And he does feel less inclined to go on a self-loathing rant than he did when he was sitting with his head in the toilet, so there's that.

Ben seems happier, too, and maybe more obviously tipsy now that he's sitting down. It doesn't take much for him, anyway. Sammy has seen him laid low over three homemade jello shots at their household video game night - Lily had picked him off as an easy target within minutes, and Jack had offered to put him up in bed to sleep it off. But of course Ben refused, even if he did end up asleep before Lily and Sammy’s revenge match was over, and Lily had cooed sarcastically at how sweet they looked with Ben propped up against Jack’s chest, and Sammy had…

Sammy wrenches himself out of the memory. Definitely not sober. Usually he has better control of his own thoughts. He tips his head back against the lip of the tub and groans.

“You gonna throw up again?” Ben asks. “Because I don't think I can get up, actually.”

“‘m fine,” Sammy mumbles, and then, “Sorry to ruin the party.”

“Nothing's ruined,” Ben says quietly. “I'd rather be here with you then talking to some fratboy assholes who just finished their business degree.”

“Yeah, but you could be…” Sammy falters, but continues, “You could be dancing with Jack. I know you wanted to.”

Ben shrugs and picks at the seams on his jeans. “I already did,” he says, not quite looking at his face. “Besides, I'm going home with him, so I don't mind. And I'm-” Now Ben cuts himself off. He looks slightly sheepish as he says, “I'm still kind of mad at him. For giving you crap about - y’know.”

Sammy knows. “He's right, though,” he says, “he always is. I should be over this, I should be _better_ than this.”

“I don't think it's something you get over, dude,” Ben says. He shuffles closer, scooting along until he's bracketed between Sammy’s knees. “I think you just… everyone takes their own time, right? You'll get there. Even if you're not there yet, you still-”

“But I _want_ to be there,” Sammy says, the words wrenched out of some deep part of him that he usually guards obsessively. “I want to be there so badly, Ben, for-”

His brain finally connects enough to shut his mouth, and he stares at a broken tile on the wall behind Ben. Always running his stupid mouth, giving too much away…

“For Jack?” Ben guesses. Sammy doesn't respond. “You don't owe him that, dude. You're not his boyfriend, and-”

Sammy can't help it. He barks out a laugh, loud and bitter, and only stops when he notices Ben’s wide-eyed look.

“And even if you were,” Ben says slowly, as if realising something, and there's only one thing he can be realising. Sammy may actually throw up again. “Huh.”

“I'm really happy for you guys,” he says desperately, holding his hands up as if surrendering. He kind of is. “Seriously, Ben, please don't - please don't.”

He doesn't even know what he's asking for. Mercy, maybe. It's not that he's scared - not of Ben, tiny and energetic and gentle when someone needs him to be. But the anxiety is back in his stomach, already filling his head with worst case scenarios.

Ben leans forward, hands on the floor of the tub between them. Sammy wishes he were smaller too, so he could tuck his legs in and curl up and never look at anyone ever again. “Dude,” Ben says, and his voice sounds - weird. Not gentle like he was expecting. Almost nervous? “Do you - do you like Jack?”

Not nervous. _Excited._ Like a teenager at a sleepover playing Truth or Dare.

“Ben,” Sammy says, and doesn't know what else to say. Ben scoots even closer and puts a hand on Sammy’s where he'd been clenching the fabric of his jeans without noticing. His eyes are almost too bright to look at.

“Don't - it's okay, dude,” he says. He even smiles as he says it, as if Sammy isn't tearing all three of their lives apart with this. “Shit, I don't wanna - I don't wanna assume, but… Dude, you're my best friend. You can tell me anything, no matter what.”

That dislodges the lump in Sammy’s throat just enough. “Your best friend,” he repeats. “Your best friend who’s in love with your boyfriend, who's been selfish and jealous and lying about it this whole time-”

“You're in _love_ with him?” Ben interrupts. Sammy puts his head in his hands and groans. “No, no, sorry, that's - Sammy, that's awesome!”

He's making fun of Sammy. That's the only possible explanation, except that Ben Arnold doesn't kick people when they’re down, especially not his friends, even if they have just confessed to - this. Sammy looks up and, yep, Ben looks genuinely, truly happy, beaming with a terrifying drunken energy.

“ _How,_ ” is all Sammy can say.

Ben pat his hand rapidly, either an attempt to soothe or just an outburst of this inexplicable excitement. “Because you're best friends! You're _roommates!_ Oh my God, this is like, every romcom ever, dude!”

“I don't know if you've seen many gay movies, Ben, but usually at least one of the guys die,” Sammy says flatly. That finally deflates Ben a little.

“Not _In & Ou_ _t,_ ” he offers, but he's lost the excitement. Sammy tries not to feel bad about it. “I didn't… that's really why you're so cut up about Jack getting on your case? You think he wouldn't like you if you're not out?”

For someone who can be so slow to catch on, Ben can be uncomfortably perceptive sometimes. “I know he wouldn't,” he says. “He's been wanting to be more open for ages, he loves that about you. He wouldn't-” He pauses. “You're way too calm over me talking about your boyfriend like this.”

Ben finally lets go of Sammy’s hand to make some sort of flapping gesture. “He's not really my boyfriend, dude,” he says casually. “We're - I really like him, but we're more like. Best friends. Not like us,” he clarifies, patting Sammy’s chest briefly, “but man, I don't think we've ever even been on a date, unless you count this party. Which I totally don't, because he was an ass to you outside.”

“It's been three months,” Sammy says in disbelief. Ben gives a lopsided smile.

“And we've both known for three months it's not gonna be forever,” he replies. “I'm graduating in a few weeks, and I'm not gonna stick around, y’know? I gotta go home. And we're always gonna be friends, just like how you and me are gonna be, but once I leave, we're not gonna be anything else.”

“Ben,” Sammy says softly. Ben looks away, still holding that smile. “You like him a lot.”

“I do,” Ben agrees. He picks at his nails and continues, “But it's not love. I don't think it ever would've been, either, so please don't feel bad. He's an amazing guy, and like, I get it? Oh, shit, does this mean I can tell you how he is in bed?”

 _“Ben!”_ His friend grins, and Sammy finally laughs, tension seeping out of his shoulders as he lets himself relax, worst case scenarios all fading away. “Absolutely not, oh my God!”

“You wanna find out for yourself?” Ben says, smug and terrible, and Sammy rolls his eyes to cover the deep rush of fondness he's suddenly feeling.

“You're insufferable,” he tells Ben. Ben just plants his elbows on Sammy’s knees and puts his chin in his hands, every inch of him radiating satisfaction with the situation.

“You haven't seen anything yet,” he says. “I'm gonna wingman the hell out of you, Sammy. Damn, and I'm leaving in a few weeks… I've worked with worse.”

“No way,” Sammy says. Ben gives him a challenging look. “No, no wingman-ing, no- no romcom setups!”

“I could totally do it!” Ben complains. Sammy points threateningly at him. “Okay, okay. I'll back off for now. And I won't tell Jack, obviously,” he adds as an afterthought.

“I know you wouldn't,” Sammy replies, and surprisingly, he does. He trusts Ben more than anyone, almost - just another weird but wonderful aspect of their fast friendship.

Ben tilts his head and smiles like he can see Sammy’s thoughts on his face. “I am breaking up with him, though,” he says. “Not tonight, but like, tomorrow.”

“I thought you weren't dating,” Sammy teases. Ben frees up one hand and uses it to flick Sammy’s forehead.

“Well, I _meant_ I'll stop sleeping with him, but don't let me spare your feelings or anything,” he grumbles. “You probably won't even notice the difference, honestly.”

“I think I'll hear the difference,” Sammy says dryly before he can stop himself. Ben freezes.

“Oh shit, you could _hear us?”_ he says. Sammy winces. Ben collapses backwards against the other end of the tub and groans into his hands. “ _Dude!”_

“I got some noise cancelling headphones,” Sammy offers, but Ben just shakes his head.

“ _What did you hear,”_ he says in a muffled and distraught tone. Sammy laughs despite himself.

“I promise, Ben, the second I realised what was happening, I shoved my head under my pillow. It’s not like I wanted to hear anything!”

“It's been three months and you said _nothing,”_ Ben hisses through his fingers. Then he stands, face bright red, and announces with some attempt at dignity, “I'm getting another drink. For myself. And some water for you. Because I don't want to have this conversation anymore.”

Sammy laughs him all the way to the door.

 

It must be at least an hour later when the door cracks open. Sammy squints up at the ceiling, still mostly asleep. The heavy weight on his chest tells him Ben is still curled up where he’d passed out right after his heartwarming and surprisingly tuneful performance of some Maroon 5 song that had been thumping through the floor, which in turn had been after he’d handed Sammy the ukulele he’d brought back upstairs with more cups of mystery punch and demanded a song.

(“It’s the only one I know,” Sammy had said as he hesitantly picked out the chords to ‘I’m Yours’. “Jack tried to teach me, but music isn’t really my thing.”

“He taught you this song?” Ben had asked, muffled in Sammy’s shirt. Sammy hummed and readjusted his fingers on the fret, maneuvering his arms around Ben. “This particular song?”

“Yeah, it was everywhere when we were in college.” Sammy laughed and strummed another chord. “He had to actually move my fingers for me, I was so bad.”

“Was it like in the romcoms? Did he hug you?”

“He couldn’t exactly remember the chords backwards.”

“So…” Ben’s voice had been muffled and slurred with the alcohol, and yet still audibly smug. “He was hugging you and singing the words ‘I’m yours’?”

Sammy’s fingers slid off the fret. “...shit.”

“He’s probably been into you this whole time, and you can’t even take a hint,” Ben had complained. “I asked if he wanted a threesome with you once and he - _no, stop moving, sit still_ \- he went red and couldn’t stop wheezing, yeah, just like that! Come on, don’t move, lie down - _no, like before, I was comfy, dude_ -”)

Footsteps echoing on the tiles interrupt Sammy’s sluggish recollection. He rolls his head in time to see Jack crouch down next to the tub with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” he says, quieter than Sammy usually hears him. He only looks away from Sammy’s face for a second, to glance down at Ben and shake his head. “He said he’d text when you were feeling better. I figured he’d fallen asleep.”

“Lightweight,” Sammy agrees, and his voice sounds rusty even to his ears. Jack laughs gently.

“Like you can talk,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle Sammy’s hair. Sammy closes his eyes involuntarily. “How much did you throw up?”

“Everything,” Sammy says reluctantly. Jack laughs again and Sammy tries to lift a hand to bat him away, only to find that Ben has a weirdly strong grip on his wrist. “Hey, sports guy, think you can lift Ben off me?”

“I knew you were only friends with me for my muscles,” Jack says, but he shifts his hand from Sammy’s hair to Ben’s back, patting between his shoulder blades for a second before hauling him upright. Together they steady him until he starts blinking himself awake.

“Thought I’d have to carry you out of here,” Jack tells him with a grin. Ben glares at him with bleary eyes. “Wouldn’t be too hard.”

“Fuck off, Jack and the beanstalk,” Ben croaks. Sammy barks a laugh and holds up his hand for a high five, which Ben gives him in a careful display of hand-eye coordination.

Jack offers his hand to help Ben climb out of the tub, and Sammy grabs the abandoned ukulele before clambering out himself. He still feels like his thinking is too slow for sobriety, but at least he’s standing - Ben falls into Jack’s side the second he’s on his own two feet, which Jack accommodates easily. Sammy doesn’t even feel the all-too familiar twinge of jealousy at the sight, especially when Ben looks up at him with an easy smile.

He mouths something and does an exaggerated wink. Sammy tries to subtly gesture his confusion.

“I’ve got a plan,” Ben says, way too loudly. Jack looks down at him in amusement.

“A plan?” he repeats. Sammy facepalms.

“A plan to put this back without anyone realising we took it,” he says quickly, waving the ukulele in his other hand. Jack takes it and makes an interested noise.

“I haven’t played one of these in a while,” he says, grinning at Sammy. “Remember when I tried to teach you?”

“Vividly,” Sammy says, a little too wryly, but Jack doesn’t seem to notice.

“We should play more often,” he says wistfully. “I haven’t gotten my guitar out in ages…”

Sammy really isn’t a music person, and would almost rather play a sport than touch an instrument. But he finds himself saying, “I’d like that.”

Jacks gives him that soft smile again, and he’s standing a lot closer than Sammy usually allows - it’d be incredibly easy to lean in and -

Jack stumbles to the side and laughs, looking down at Ben, half buried in his side. “Did you just fall asleep?” he asks. Ben moans something incoherent. “Alright, we’re going. Please don’t make me actually carry you, I’ll feel like a dad and that’s gonna be bad for everyone.”

“Agreed,” Sammy and Ben say in unison, one more muffled than the other.

They stumble out of the house together, carefully placing the ukulele back safely in a sitting room off the main area, walking past the college students of (hopefully) legal drinking age dancing and drinking and passing out in various places until they’re back on the street with music still spilling out around them.

”What were you guys even doing up there, anyway?” Jack asks idly. Sammy shrugs.

“Y’know,” he says. “Drunk people stuff. Talking about the future, I guess.”

“Sounds nice,” Jack says. And for a second, Sammy allows himself to think… maybe. Maybe he could have this.

“I think it’s going to be,” he says, and believes it.


End file.
